


Pride & Prejudice & Mutants

by boston_alien



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Charles Xavier, Bottom Erik Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Drama & Romance, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pride and Prejudice References, Regency Romance, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Switching, Top Charles Xavier, Top Erik Lehnsherr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boston_alien/pseuds/boston_alien
Summary: It was universally acknowledged in the north of Derbyshire that the Xavier children were, to put it as delicately as one might, a ‘catch.’  In the game of matchmaking and marriage, they were the clear goals...Charles has always done his best to avoid the London season of romance, throwing himself into studies at Oxford and dodging his mother's attempts to set him up with various matches.  But when he meets Erik Lehnsherr, the broody and rough around the edges heir to one of the largest estates in the county, Charles' interest is immediately piqued, especially when he learns that Erik is a mutant, something which is notably frowned upon in upper class society...
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier, Irene Adler (X-Men)/Raven | Mystique
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely inspired by my love of Jane Austen and my need for Regency Era LGTBQ+ content. Please be gentle with me if I mess up some era-specific references; I did my best to research beforehand.

It was universally acknowledged in the north of Derbyshire that the Xavier children were, to put it as delicately as one might, a ‘catch.’ It wasn’t merely for their wealth that they were considered the prime attraction of the various upper class that resided around the area (though eager gossips in Matlock were always sure to mention the seven thousand a year when the Xavier name inevitably arose). No, in addition to this considerable wealth, both Charles and Raven were considered to be extraordinarily handsome, and the family was said to do _many_ a good thing for charity.

[Dernwhit Hall](https://64.media.tumblr.com/8e1963173dd733fab2f683db64383633/c301449a1dd13880-61/s1280x1920/37fe2bab0461670b80b626e5fd262db8c96fdc37.jpg) where the Xaviers resided (and had done so for as long as anyone in the county could recall) was considered one of the finest establishments in all of Derbyshire. It was settled comfortably on a pleasant hill, the grounds before it sloping down towards the River Derwent, affording a lovely view to those who were fortunate enough to stroll through the immaculate gardens of Dernwhit Hall. In the daylight, the brilliant colours of over a dozen different flower species stood out cheerfully against the rich green of the hedge rows. Gardeners mulled gently here and there, gathering flowers for the evening’s upcoming ball.

However, if an outside observer were to stumble upon the garden in their present state, the gossips in Matlock would have far more to discuss than the upcoming ball, the Xavier’s fortune, or any charitable deeds.

Rather, they would have seen what would have been considered quite scandalous and alarming: Raven Xavier walked briskly through the gardens in a pair of trousers and a white flowing shirt, a far cry from the gowns one would expect a woman of her standing to be dressed in. Behind her, Charles Xavier trailed, exasperated but not at her state of dress. The pants were a frequent occurrence by now, following a rebellion several years ago when Raven decreed that she would no longer be wearing corsets and gowns in the privacy of her own family’s home.

The exasperation, rather, came from the upcoming ball itself.

“You worry too much, Charles,” Raven remarked dismissively, brushing her fingertips along a blue poppy that turned its head happily towards the sun. The soft blue of the flower was nothing compared to the natural blue of Raven’s skin. However, in the presence of the gardeners, Raven looked as one might call ‘normal,’ hiding her mutation from those who might whisper about it. Mutations were, after all, considered to be for _common_ folk.

Behind her, Charles huffed slightly as though her accusation was entirely unfounded (it wasn’t) and as though he was completely fine with the upcoming evening’s events (he wasn’t). He adjusted his own sleeves and sighed, “I don’t like the idea of them throwing various suitors at you. It feels rather like a meat market. So very...uncouth.”

“Charles, if you’re only just realising that the London season is like a meat market, you’ve been far more caught up in your books than I realised.” Raven grinned over her shoulder at him, twirling the poppy she’d plucked between her fingers, “you’ll have to do better than that tonight. Our dear darling mother asked me to remind you that she has _several_ young ladies for you to talk to this evening. There’s the eldest Frost, the impeccable Ororo Munroe, and of course, Moira MacTaggert.” She flipped her hair back over her shoulder, and Charles could hear the laughter in her voice. If she was going to have to deal with the events of the season, so was he.

The London season. It was something Charles had managed to avoid over the past year, deftly scheduling various Oxford classes and speaking events to avoid any pressures from his family to do the expected duties of an eldest son: to find himself a nice woman to produce an heir with. As Sharon Xavier had blithely reminded him almost every year since he turned twenty-one, “proclivities are fine, dear, but we do need an heir.” It had been eight years since this first reminder and despite his best attempts every year since to avoid a set-up, there had been balls and dances over the various holidays - Christmas celebrations where Sharon Xavier sweetly introduced him to various eligible matches, Saint George's Day banquets where he was less than subtly seated next to those same matches - where he had been forced to interact with England’s upper class families. And despite it all, he had remained resolutely disinterested ever since his first interest in Gabrielle Haller (“Too _poor_ , my dear! No title! Lives on charity. Really dear, she _works_ at the university.”) had been deemed ‘inappropriate.’

Nonetheless Sharon Xavier, garrulous widow of the well respected Brian Xavier, was intent on finding matches for her children, and only the best would do. Each season the well-to-do gossipers of Matlock and the general populace of Derbyshire (as well as those who migrated to London for the winter) would speculate about who might finally catch the attention of one of the Xavier children, some going as far as to place bets. 

“Charles?”

Raven’s amused voice dragged him back into the present and Charles blinked owlishly at her as he tried to refocus himself.

“Apologies,” he mumbled awkwardly, rubbing his arm, “I was lost in thought about Oxford.”

Raven sent him an amused look but opted to accept his excuse, exhaling slowly instead, “well, tonight you best be focused on the evening’s events; I can’t uphold the Xavier name all on my own, you know.”

✧✧✧

It was expected that the Xaviers would throw the _event_ of the season to _start_ the season, and Sharon Xavier would never let her family fail society’s expectations. The entirety of the rooms open to the public had been decorated with snow white flowers and candles throughout. Servants whisked here and there, ensuring that no melted wax looked unseemly and that any punch bowl was refilled before it began to look empty. Above the soft hum of string instruments, laughter and conversation rolled, a symposium of happy people. It was through this that Charles was deftly weaving his way in an attempt to avoid his mother. He’d seen her from across the room, with Moira MacTaggert on her arm, and made a beeline for Raven’s side.

Miss MacTaggert was a lovely young woman. Moira MacTaggert was intelligent, well-mannered, and kind. And Moira MacTagger was most definitely not interested in him, if her attentions to James Howlett were anything to go by, and Charles had no desire to irritate the gruff landowner. He came to a stop by Raven’s side, who was looking absolutely resplendent in a brilliant blue gown, and gratefully took the small cup of punch from her when it was offered.

“You’ll have to dance with one of them soon,” Raven remarked almost absently, her gaze flicking over the crowd curiously, scanning the various entrances. Charles frowned at her and then straightened up to look where she was before he arched a brow questioningly at her.

“Who are you looking for?”

“Mr. Lehnsherr,” her absent voice came again, and Charles blinked in confusion.

He had rather thought he knew all of the different families who might attend his family’s balls, and the name Lehnsherr was unfamiliar to him. Raven seemed in no rush to give him further details and Charles felt prickled to curiosity despite himself. He imagined that there was no eligible match in the Lehnsherr family, hence his mother not thinking it important to give him the usual information session as often came when a new family entered the neighborhood. Usually when a new family arrived, with an eligible and acceptable partner, his mother would sit down with him and proceed to give him the latest gossip on them - their family name, their house, their income...but he’d heard nothing about the Lehnsherrs. He was further perplexed that Raven of all people seemed to be looking for this Mr. Lehnsherr - he had never known her to eagerly anticipate someone’s arrival other than his own or during the dances when Irene Adler would be in attendance.

“And he is…?” Charles prompted, rather put out that he was being forced to ask, but Charles never handled not knowing things well and while he could have easily found the information he wanted in Raven’s mind, he had kept his promise ever since they were young, and his mutation first developed, to never go inside her head.

“The new master of Levenswood. He came into possession at the end of last season and has been in residence ever since; didn’t go into London for the winter. Apparently his uncle passed away and left everything to him - Levenswood is worth over twelve thousand a year, you know.”

Charles listened, a frown crossing his face; Raven’s words sounded more like their mother, and he was about to ask how much punch she’d imbibed when -

“He’s a mutant too. And openly uses his mutation. If he weren’t so rich, he’d have been kept from society, but...you know how the ‘meat market’ goes. They'll forgive the mutation because of the money. He’s dreadfully interesting to talk to, not at all like the stuffy upper class. You’d like him.”

Raven spoke with a more hushed voice in discussing Mr. Lehnsherr and his mutation, but Charles could see the eagerness in her face, and he felt a pang of sympathy for her. Hiding his mutation was easy. For Raven, it was a constant measure of control.

Mutations were still not accepted in high society. They were considered a nature of the lower class, the _working_ class. A small party trick or a tool to do one’s job, but nothing the nobility should have. There were always rumours about which members of Derbyshire’s best families might have mutations (there was a rumour about the Munroes that was almost universally discredited, though of course whispered about when party guests had had too much to drink), but it was always quite efficiently hushed up if the rumours grew too loud.

When Raven had first turned blue at age eleven, Charles remembered the panic in his mother’s face and how swiftly she had made sure to spread the news that Raven was ill, and would have to go away to Bath for some time to recover. In reality, she was kept up in her room, with only a maid and Charles for company. Sharon Xavier couldn’t bear to see her beloved daughter in such a state, prone to hysterics if she thought about having a _blue mutant child_ for too long. So Charles had been the one to sit with Raven, and keep her company, and teach her. Whatever books he was given from school, he would bring to her. Whatever lessons he was taught, he would teach to her. And he had shared that he also was a mutant. Let her know that she wasn’t alone.

This had gone on for close to a year, until one day Raven had miraculously looked ‘normal’ again. Their mother’s elation was palpable, particularly for Charles, who had been nearly bowled over by the force of it and her relief. From that day on, there had been daily ‘training’ sessions to ensure Raven had control over herself and her appearance, and only when Raven was thirteen was Sharon convinced that she could ‘return’ from Bath.

It made sense then, to Charles, that Raven would be so thrilled to hear of a member of society who made no attempt to hide a mutation, and now he felt more curious to meet this Mr. Lehnsherr, wondering what he had done before inheriting Levenswood. And wondering, perhaps more than that, what Mr. Lehnserr’s mutation _was_. He was about to ask Raven if she knew when her hand gripped at his wrist and she exclaimed, “good, he’s here.” And was towing him across the room.

Charles barely had time to set down his punch cup before stumbling rather ungracefully after her, his blue eyes scanning the room in the assumption that Mr. Lehnsherr would be difficult to spot. He for some reason had expected someone older - perhaps a widower (someone whose children were long past their own prime and therefore not viable matches) with grey hair and bent at the shoulders - but when Raven came to a stop in front of Mr. Lehnsherr, Charles briefly forgot all of the society rules he should follow when meeting a new family in the neighborhood.

Mr. Lehnsherr was not, as Charles assumed, old. He was, instead, rather extraordinarily handsome. He was tall - quite tall - Charles had to tilt his chin up slightly and while he had never felt as though he was short before, now the adjective flashed into his mind. Broad shoulders tapering to lean hips. A close beard was neatly trimmed around Mr. Lehnsherr’s jaw, which rather resembled an anvil, all sharp hard lines. His hair, the same ruddy colour as the beard and brushed into place, seemed to be curling slightly at the ends behind his ears. And his eyes - an iron grey mixed with hazel - were so intense that Charles’ attempted recovery of his thought process was derailed as they turned to him, so intense that Charles rather felt as though Mr. Lehnsherr were trying to stare directly into his soul.

“My brother, Mr. Lehnsherr, Charles Xavier. He’s been away at Oxford. Charles, this is Mr. Erik Lehnsherr, the new master of Levenswood,” Raven said, her voice eager, and now her interest made more sense. If he and Mr. Lehnsherr became friends, the man would be invited more frequently to Dernwhit Hall, and she would be able to ask questions about mutations. Charles took a deep breath and attempted to clear his mind and focus his attention - a problem he had not had since first mastering his abilities.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lehnsherr - I hope that Derbyshire has been kind in its reception of you so far?” Charles said brightly, extending a hand towards the other man even as he extended tendrils of thought carefully towards Mr. Lehnsherr’s mind. It was habit by now, to get a feel for someone else’s mind, to understand people better, to navigate the intricacies of social expectations more efficiently. It was simply a surface level touch, one that people were never even aware of.

But as soon as he made contact, Mr. Lehnsherr’s mind slammed down around Charles, shoving him out in an instinctive recoil, and the grasp on his hand turned brutal and bruising for a moment before the tension eased. For a moment, Charles was lost in staring up at Mr. Lehnsherr, who showed no visual signs that he had felt the telepathy.

“People here have been quite kind,” Mr. Lehnsherr replied, his voice deep and rough, a low gravel that, despite the way he was staring down at Charles, sent a slight thrill through Charles’ spine. He was about to attempt an apology, considering pushing it towards Mr. Lehnsherr's mind, eager to understand Erik’s - Mr. Lehnsherr's - mutation more, assuming it was some sort of mental power, when Sharon Xavier’s slightly too-loud voice appeared behind him.

“My _dear_! I’ve been searching _everywhere_ for you. You’ve been _quite_ elusive today and I’m simply _dying_ to have you speak with Miss Frost. Mr. Lehnsherr, a pleasure as always to see you.”

And before Charles could protest, he was being whisked away.

The rest of the evening passed in a similar manner. Every time Charles attempted to approach Mr. Lehnsherr, his mother would be at his side and his attention would be directed elsewhere. Charles knew why; he would stay out of Raven’s mind, as promised, but it had taken only a brief glance at his mother’s thoughts to know that she was concerned about her children fraternizing with a _mutant_ , especially given Raven’s own hidden abilities. It seemed that not even twelve thousand pounds a year was enough to entice Sharon Xavier into trying to make a match with Mr. Lehnsherr, and while Charles assured himself that he was only trying to be polite by speaking with Mr. Lehnsherr, he knew that was a lie. He became distracted, nearly offended Mr. Frost by failing to pay attention to some twenty-three minute tale about grouse hunting, and by the time dancing had begun, was thoroughly obsessed with finding a way to get over to Mr. Lehnsherr.

It wasn’t just that the man was handsome, though Charles’ thoughts were mildly consumed with just how much he would like to feel those rough hands on his body and that beard against his face. No, it was more than that. In the brief moment where Charles’ mind had reached Mr. Lehnsherr’s, he had felt such brilliance there that it had left his mind reeling. It was as though he had reached into a sea of dangerous storm clouds where flashes of lightning threatened to rip through him, overwhelming in their power and dangerous because Charles _wanted_ to be overwhelmed by it. There was intelligence there, shrouded in tension and wariness, and walls of steel erected in ways that only someone who understood telepathy, or had it themselves, could have constructed. He was desperate to learn more, or at the very least, to apologise for his mind’s intrusion upon Erik’s. Mr. Lehnsherr’s.

“- which is why, of course, only the finest silk would do for-”

A sharp pain in his foot brought Charles out of his thoughts and into the present moment as Mrs. Munroe continued on about her latest redecoration efforts in Stormwood Abbey, and Charles looked gratefully at Ororo before answering Mrs. Munroe’s question about whether he preferred a velvet to a silk. By now they had developed a way of surviving social events together, though normally Ororo didn’t have to stomp on his foot to get his attention when it drifted. A few moments later and Mrs. Munroe’s attention was called away and Charles was able to forge ahead with his eighth attempt to speak with Mr. Lehnsherr.

Weaving his way through the dance hall, Charles was beginning to despair at finding the man. He should have been easy to spot, given his height, but the distinguished gentleman seemed to have vanished entirely from the ballroom. Quickly changing directions, Charles was planning on approaching the lounge in case Mr. Lehnsherr had retired there with some of the other gentlemen for peace and quiet when, as he turned a corner in the hall, he collided with a very hard, very broad chest. He went stumbling back and perhaps would have fallen (how much had he had to drink?, he wondered wildly) if a strong hand hadn’t caught his wrist and pulled him forward from the fall, and - in overcorrecting - back against that chest. Erik's chest.

For a moment both he and Mr. Lehnsherr were still, shadowed in the hallway as the sounds of music and laughter filtered through. Charles became instantly and extraordinarily aware of the lack of space between them and the rough callouses on the fingers that gripped his wrist. His pulse seemed to have leapt into his throat, heart pounding, and Charles parted his lips to apologise, only to frown slightly as Mr. Lehnsherr released his hold, stepped back with a brisk incline of his head, and seemed on the verge of disappearing down the hall as if to leave the ball entirely.

“Would you care to dance?”

The question escaped Charles before he could help it, the only way he could think to prevent Mr. Lehnsherr from leaving. It succeeded, in a way, at least for a moment. Mr. Lehnsherr (and Charles had to remind himself to call him that and not by his first name) turned back, and for an agonizing moment of silence, seemed to be considering the offer.

“I don’t dance.”

The words were spoke with that same velvet gravel tone, an accent (German?) faint in the back of it but unless Charles was imagining things, there was almost embarrassed or wistful tone to it. Before Charles could find words to reply, Mr. Lehnsherr had turned back and was striding down the hall, leaving Charles staring in his wake.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite it being early Spring, a season that promised warmth, there was a slightly perceptible chill in the air, or perhaps it merely felt that way to Erik as he strode away from the warmth of candlelight, laughter, and Charles’ touch.

_“Would you care to dance?”_

Erik’s hand flexed at his side in a hapless attempt to rid himself of the faint memory of warmth that remained in his fingers, and a faint groan of metal filled the air. His fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist, quickly regaining control over his abilities before any damage was done, and he set his shoulders back, barking sharply to the footman to fetch his horse. He knew he was perhaps foregoing the niceties of high society by leaving so early, that he was potentially opening up more of his person to the gossips of Matlock, and that he had almost definitely offended Mr. Xavier by refusing to dance. He told himself he didn't care.

Mr. Xavier. Miss Xavier’s brother. Charles. He had heard much about the man since he’d first arrived at Levenswood and made the acquaintance of the surrounding neighborhood. It wasn’t just Miss Xavier who had spoken highly of her brother. No, there had been comments made by the staff at Levenswood, off-handed remarks by those in the town of Matlock, and it had all been positive. Charles Xavier. The pride of Matlock, a brilliant scholar, considered quite good looking, and of course, a catch. What had not been mentioned, perhaps because Mr. Xavier worked to hide it from them, was that Mr. Xavier was a mutant.

He swung onto the horse, urging the animal forward and away from the distant laughter.

_“Would you care to dance?”_

The first tendril of thought that had pressed into his mind had been far different than any telepathy Erik had felt growing up. Rather than cold and harsh, Mr. Xavier’s mental touch had been gentle and curious, filling his mind with a soft warmth. It had been jarring in its difference, and he’d reacted more harshly than intended. Mr. Xavier had seemed unfazed - perhaps even more intrigued - by the way Erik had pushed him out of his mind. And despite Erik’s brusque, sharp behavior, Mr. Xavier had still pursued conversation with him throughout the evening, and even gone so far as to ask him to dance.

Erik didn’t dance. He felt his upbringing most clearly in ballroom dances, preferring general assemblies where the common folk of Matlock were present and the skill of one’s dancing abilities wasn’t the focus of the evening. He hadn’t grown up learning the dances like those in attendance at the Xavier’s ball. He was new to them, and a misstep would mean the scrutiny of those quickest to judge him would narrow in focus. 

Levenswood Manor loomed dark in the distance, stone walls tucked into a hillside with sprawling grounds invisible in the sweep of nighttime over the land. The manor was considered to be one of the finest estates in Derbyshire, though in the years before his uncle’s death, it had considerably faded in its grandeur. Once flawless grounds had gone slightly wild, with gardeners given less instruction as to their care. Ivy crawled up and around stone as though it were trying to reclaim the manor for the earth itself. Around the manor's grounds, a grand forest stretched lazily, with a good amount of paths that led through it. The walks themselves frequently beckoned their master into them, and Erik had spent most of his first month at Levenswood merely prowling around the grounds, twice meeting tenants of the land who had no idea they were speaking with the master of the estate.

The first time Erik had encountered one of his tenants had been three days after his arrival at Levenswood, before the unrelenting and resolute housekeeper (a woman named Elaine Grey) had succeeded in getting him to “dress like you’re a proper lord, master. You’ve money now; don’t let them look down their noses at you.” Thus, in this first encounter, he was dressed merely in soft spun trousers, old boots, and a shirt that had seen better days and was missing one button.

The tenant in question had been despairing over a lost fishing lure, muttering to himself about how losing a day’s worth of fish would set him and his family back. Erik had hesitated and then quietly approached. It had been a simple thing to retrieve the lure with his abilities and he had recovered three others in addition to the first. The tenant had grasped at Erik’s hand with sincere thanks, calling his mutation a wonder, and then inserted a few comments about how the upper class looked down on such things out of jealousy. Erik had proceeded to linger for almost a full hour, assisting the man with his catches, before reluctantly heading back to the manor, where he had been gently scolded by Mrs. Grey for “returning smelling like a fish market, master.”

The second time he had encountered one of his tenants, it had been the clergyman and his family who had received patronage from Erik’s uncle. They had been at Haversford Parsonage for nearly twenty years, a fact Erik could recall as he had met them once before when he had been brought to visit his uncle during his youth. Tobias and Charlotte Adler had been quite kind to him, and thus he had lingered with them upon meeting them again, making sure that the parsonage and church were in good repair, and greeting their daughter Irene.

The manor was dark now, though Erik knew the servants would be quick to respond to their master’s return, despite all of Erik’s attempts to tell them he was quite capable of lighting fires and preparing a meal for himself. Now eight months in to residing at Levenswood Manor, Erik had conceded the lighting of fires and candles to the servants, and _usually_ allowed the cook to prepare his meals.

He flung himself off the horse, catching its bridle gently to lead it towards the stables, and promptly sighing as a servant appeared as if from nowhere, bowing and quickly taking the reins from him. And as if there was a telepath in their midst, a light was coming on in Erik’s study, a sign that a fire had been lit and that the servants were aware that he was home. Erik dragged a hand over his face and resigned himself to allowing the staff to handle arrangements for that evening.

Once inside, Erik was quick to remove the trappings of high society. The jacket and the waist-coat were set swiftly aside, and he was in the midst of unbuttoning the high collar of the shirt when Mrs. Grey swept into the room with a tray of food and a bottle of wine. She gave him a Look that _clearly_ spoke her displeasure at his returning so early from the ball, but otherwise said nothing and merely disappeared around the corner in a bustle of skirts, leaving him to his fireplace and his meal. Once sure he was alone, Erik rid himself of the cravat around his neck and sank down into the chair, wearied by the events of the day.

His intent was to read with his meal, but as he settled back in the chair, Erik found his thoughts drifting back to Charles Xavier. To his warm hands, to those beautiful blue eyes full of intelligence and curiousity. Eager. Inviting. Erik dragged his hand over his face and tilted his head back to stare up at the ceiling, wondering how different the night would have gone if he had accepted Charles’ invitation to dance. Charles, warm in his arms and close against his chest like he had been in the hall, one hand on his shoulder, the other gripping his waist. Charles, smiling up at him, making conversation - Miss Xavier had said that he liked to talk. And then his mind conjured other thoughts of Charles in his arms, though this Charles wore far fewer layers and - Erik exhaled a frustrated sound and pushed thoughts of Charles Xavier out of his mind.

At least, for a few minutes.

✧✧✧

The morning after a ball _always_ resulted in a conversation between Sharon Xavier and her children, as there was a new wealth of information that had unfurled throughout the evening and thus required discussion. In Sharon Xavier’s mind, the ball had been a near _complete_ success and she recounted the events as such. The eldest Miss Frost had danced with Miss Braddock (“A simply _beautiful_ pair, what a match that would be, though Charles, I did expect you to dance with Miss Frost.”), Mr. Howlett stood up _twice_ with Miss MacTaggert (“He’s a bit rough around the edges, I never saw that match coming - another match you’ve let slip away, Charles.”), and Charles and Raven had both had partners for _every_ dance (“A small consolation, Charles, that you’re still sought after even if you won’t properly pursue anyone…”).

There were, of course, _concerns_ to be addressed. Charles had not asked anyone to dance more than once and Raven had _declined_ an offer to stand up a second time with young Mr. Sean Cassidy. The latter was the current topic at hand and Sharon was lecturing Raven on Mr. Cassidy’s wealth, his family’s good standing, and how they couldn’t afford to let matches of such a caliber go. Raven was putting up with her mother’s frustrations with admirable gallantry, her tone light and easy as she deftly verbally side-stepped each concern Sharon raised. Charles suspected his sister was managing this due to the fact that they had plans to go for a ride out to Haversford, and in turn, near Irene.

Charles himself was distracted with thoughts of the ride out. Haversford Parsonage held new interest for him, as it was situated on the sprawling land around Levenswood Manor, and thus was under the patronage of a one Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. Yet again Raven’s schemes seem to have been made well in advance of him meeting Mr. Lehnsherr, as she had organized this ride for them and Henry McCoy several weeks prior, and Charles was beginning to suspect she might have ulterior motives.

Wolfing down the rest of his breakfast as gracefully as one might manage, Charles pressed a quick kiss to his mother’s cheek and promised that, at next week’s assembly, he would be sure to ask someone to dance twice. Appeased, Sharon Xavier waved both of her children off and went to prepare to go out visiting, for while her children were hopeless when it came to gossip, her closest friend (Mrs. Munroe) would be sure to have much to say on the subject of the ball, the dances, and of course, their mutual despair over their children _ever_ making a match.

Henry McCoy was just coming up the steps to the house as Charles and Raven were exiting, and Charles was quick to embrace the man. Henry (known to his friends as Hank) McCoy was Charles’ oldest friend. They had known each other since Charles had first begun to attend Oxford, with Hank being a similarly eager young student, with a mind equally bright as Charles’. Despite the differences in their social classes (Sharon Xavier routinely despaired over Hank’s lack of fortune, bemoaning the fact that if his father hadn’t gambled the family’s money away, he would have been a perfect match for Raven), Charles and Hank had gotten along splendidly from the start.

Today Hank was looking rather scruffy, though the blue tinge that sometimes hinted at the corners of his beard and at his scalp (usually after he had been up all night) was not present. Instead, his clothes were merely a bit rumpled and his hair a bit wild. His leather satchel was hanging at his side, which meant that he had brought _books_ , and Charles’ delight was immediately evident upon his face.

“Not for you,” Hank responded quickly, swatting away Charles’ eager hands as he went to pry and see what newest volume of literature or history Hank had brought him and Raven. Charles huffed slightly, looking to Raven who merely shrugged and went about mounting her horse. Slightly disgruntled, Charles did the same.

“Who are they for then? I can’t imagine you’ve decided to carry them around just for fun,” Charles insisted, settling on the horse and allowing Raven to lead the way out of the stables and down the road that would take them along the Derwent towards the expansive grounds of Levenswood and the surrounding area.

“Mr. Lehnsherr? I’m not sure if you’ve been introduced to him yet - he’s quite a voracious reader so I offered to procure him some volumes; apparently his uncle let the Levenswood private library go by the wayside a bit. A shame.” Hank’s tone was wistful, as though the idea of an estate’s library not being well maintained pained him on every level possible.

Charles, meanwhile, was beginning to wonder if _everyone_ except for himself had been privy to conversations with Mr. Lehnsherr. His brow furrowed, even as he tucked this newest piece of information about the man (he liked to read!) away in his mind to revisit later. In the meantime, he settled for starting in an all too curious tone, “what have you brought him? We met, quite briefly, at last night’s ball. I wasn’t able to speak much with him though.”

At this, Hank sent a rather pointed look leftwards at Raven, who upon hearing the topic change, had eased her horse back to ride alongside them. Charles, feeling particularly nettled as though everyone but himself was in on some mysterious secret, waited for them to finish their silent conversation, restraining himself from prying into Hank’s thoughts in an attempt to gain access to this mystery for himself. Hank and Raven had always been good friends; indeed, Charles had (briefly, very briefly) taken after his mother in his hopes that perhaps they would grow more than platonically fond of each other. Those hopes had never lasted long, however, and Hank had been to Raven something perhaps more important than a lover: a friend.

“I’ve brought him some Voltaire, Paine, and Goethe,” Hank responded after a moment’s silence between himself and Raven, and the answer only served to intrigue Charles more. French, English, and German authors, and quite a variety of topics to boot. He shifted on his horse, planning his next step about getting more information about the ever elusive character of Mr. Lehnsherr, when Hank added, “and you really should speak to him yourself. I’m sure you’re about to make some comment or other on the spread of content in those books, and I’m saying _ask him_. Actually _talk_ to him, Charles. He’ll feel the telepathy, you know.”

Charles heaved a heavy sigh, remarking with a slightly pained expression as he recalled the way that Mr. Lehnsherr had responded to him, “yes, I do know.”

Hank, the only other person outside of Raven who knew about Charles’ telepathy (though now Mr. Lehnsherr could be added to that list), smiled in sympathetic amusement at Charles but said nothing else until Raven took off towards the parsonage and left them to head on to Levenswood Manor themselves.

“Perhaps just ask? Before using your abilities? Mr. Lehnsherr is new to high society, and you’ve not exactly met many people like him…”

“Hank, are you trying to call me a snob?” Charles fought back a laugh as he swung off the horse, letting a servant take the reins and turning to look at the castle with curiosity. He had never been to Levenswood when its previous owner had been alive, but he had heard quite a bit about it, and none of it had been overstated. The stone of the building was a rich dark mottled mix of greys, contrasting sharply with vivid green ivy and glittering with dozens of windows. In the sunlight, it reminded Charles of castles one might read about in novels, and something about the brooding intensity of Mr. Lehnsherr came back to mind, a fitting master to a sprawling estate. He followed Hank inside, waiting in the entryway and admiring the decor, the drapery, and the clarity of the glass in the windows when the master of the house was announced, and he turned towards Mr. Lehnsherr.

Once again, he found himself thrown off kilter. Mr. Lehnsherr was less formally dressed than at the ball and was walking briskly towards them while pushing the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows. He rather looked as though he had been in the middle of work, rather than leisure. His shirt collar was undone, revealing the lean column of his neck disappearing into the soft white fabric just beneath the hollow of his throat, practically _begging_ Charles’ gaze to follow it down. He was barely listening as Hank greeted Mr. Lehnsherr, saying that he’d brought the books and explaining that Charles had been with him and how he hoped this wasn’t an intrusion. Charles managed to keep his gaze on Mr. Lehnsherr’s face, extending a hand after Hank finished speaking, remarking pleasantly, “a pleasure to see you again; I was disappointed not to get to speak with you more yesterday evening. I was hoping to apologise… I shouldn’t have tried to read your mind; it is a habit by now, but it was wrong of me. I don’t meet many other mutants in high society and I was just...eager.”

He spoke quickly, in case Mr. Lehnsherr pulled away or stopped him before he could finish his apology. Once he’d spoken, Charles relinquished his grip on Mr. Lehnsherr’s hand and cleared his throat, noticing the way Mr. Lehnsherr was studying him with the same intensity as he had the night previous. The silence stretched on for a long moment, or perhaps it only felt that way as Charles gazed into the bright intelligence of those unflinching hazel-grey eyes.

“I understand. I was caught off guard...I’m used to being alone, in being a mutant, at those events. I didn't intend to react so harshly.”

Mr. Lehnsherr’s voice was the same velvet gravel that Charles remembered, as were the rough callouses of his fingertips pressed firmly into Charles’ skin, and the same spine-tingling connection that seemed to reverberate through him. Charles felt a slow smile creep over his lips and he shook his head, “well, you’re not alone any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments! I'm delighted that so many other people needed Regency Era Cherik like I did, and that so far you're all enjoying!


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